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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29257407">Freezing and thawing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minita/pseuds/Minita'>Minita</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Because what else is he going to do, F/M, Implicit PolJon, Jon has a sort of political role, No Smut, Politics, Post canon, Reforms of Queen Sansa the First of her name, Sansa will send him to the Gift, They will heal together by building something new, but feelings lots of them, slow burn i guess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:29:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,415</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29257407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minita/pseuds/Minita</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An attempt to give Jon something to do because we all agree there is no way he is going to stay at Castle Black this whole time guarding a Wall that has lost its purpose. I like Tormund and the free folk but they are a loose canon unless they resettle properly. The show barely hinted at that. This is set in the following two years after the finale, Jon has been staying with the Free folk all this time but still feeling a bit like a stranger amongst them. Jon and Sansa are going to be in touch a lot. You know, strictly business. **wink**wink** Warnings for mentions of famine and hunting.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Snow/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Jon I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Beyond the Wall</p><p> </p><p>The free folk are merry. How could they not be? They haven’t fell an elk in months and it was a massive beast this one, it will feed them for days. Their faces are lighted, their laughter loud. A huge man covered in fur from head to toe sits on a log with a pipe made from the stomach of a goat. He blows and squeezes with more enthusiasm than talent but the crowd dances and claps, carefree, stomachs full. As the night goes on the mood changes. Old people and women with young children had been leaving little by little until the crowd consisted mostly of rowdy men and unmarried girls. The women of the free folk are capable of as much drinking as the men, and the playful banter soon turned into something else. Many of the dancers have wandered into the woods holding hands, stumbling into their tents and their privacy. Or what passes for privacy amongst them.</p><p> </p><p>It’s late, and Jon has stuck around merely out of courtesy to Tormund, and because all the ale he has drank made his legs as heavy as lead. He looks around and sees some of the couples have gotten started right there, some limbs have left the warmth of the fur trousers than both men and women wear. By the sound of it they are too warm in other areas to mind. There’s a funny warm feeling in his own breeches building up too, but he tries hard to ignore it. Earlier that night a couple of girls had tried to make him dance, one of them kept filling his mug with fresh ale, perhaps hoping he would let her sit on his lap as he did once before, during another long night of feasting. They had stumbled onto a bear that was already dead and after a superficial inspection was deemed safe to eat. The meat tasted like dirt but it filled their bellies and the girl had sat by him all night, asking him about dragons and true knights. She had pretty dark rounded eyes and she let him touch her under her shirt.</p><p> </p><p>Tonight he is not going to make that mistake. What is her name? Ellie. No, Nellie. Yes, that’s it. Nellie has lovely long eyelashes but if he takes her into his tent he knows what it means. She will claim to be stolen and he will be hers. He cannot be hers. He is not one of them. He does not belong here.</p><p> </p><p>As if called by his gloomy thoughts, Tormund’s voice shakes him up:</p><p> </p><p>“Crow!”</p><p> </p><p>He helps him get up, guffawing all the way, and muttering something about kneelers not being able to hold their drinks. They make it to the tent and he manages to land safe on a pile of sacs on a corner that doubles as seating. Suddenly, fire engulfs him, red like dragon’s breath. Terror coils in his gut for a second but it is just the reddish glow of the oil lamp hanging from the roof of the tent. Tormund must have lighted it.</p><p> </p><p>“We are in my tent” he mumbles.</p><p> </p><p>“Aye! I figured we could have some private talk here.” Tormund says as he winks at him.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t help but chuckle. The free folk sleep in family tents, at least three or four adults and countless children of various ages sleep together to help preserve heat. That and the hard work of drying and sewing furs to make a single tent make privacy impractical for them. Practicality and the wise use of resources is what has allowed them to survive this long, and Jon admires them for that. All his admiration couldn’t sway him to share a tent with ten other wildlings though. The fussing and crying of the babies, the smell of human sweat and the occasional muted sounds of amorous couples kept him up all night. </p><p> </p><p>Tormund mockingly called him “princess Crow” for days but he helped him built his own tent nevertheless. It’s small but he has made himself as comfortable as he can be, and Tormund’s people have generously taught him to fish and even to sew his own clothes. That prompted yet another round of teasing from the tribe because it’s a woman’s task but he persevered. Beautiful his stitches might not be but he hasn’t frozen to death yet so he will call it a success.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you wish to talk about?”</p><p> </p><p>“I want you to take a message to that pretty sister of yours.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sansa?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. I want you to write to her on those little parchments of yours the words I will tell you.”</p><p> </p><p>Tormund is a clever man but he doesn’t read or write. Jon doesn’t think he has ever met a wildling that could. Wildling children learn what they need to survive in the harsh north, no time for letters, and ink and paper are completely worthless here compared to, say, a good bow and arrow.</p><p> </p><p>Tormund goes on, “First, you will write that we are thankful.”</p><p> </p><p>He makes a fearsome sight with his wild red beard and wide shoulders but Jon knows him well enough to hear a hint of sadness in his voice. Twice in these two years they have gone south for help. The first time they made the mistake of dragging the whole tribe with them. By the time they reached the Wall several had died already, starved to death. Jon had never seen someone starve before. They didn’t trash, or cried, or grunted, they just fell asleep and stopped breathing, too weak to fight death. Their hollow faces and sunken eyes failed to stir anything in him so he kept walking, knowing that to stop even to mourn was time they didn’t have. Once they had eaten on the mercy of the meagre rations of the Watch, he swallowed his pride and ignoring the accusations in his former brothers’ eyes, sat and wrote to her. He soon rode back north with sleds full of grain and goat cheese, pickled eggs, dry meat and precious salt.</p><p> </p><p>The next year he had to do it again. Twice now she has kept her word to them. The Queen in the North, the Red Wolf, Winterfell’s daughter. Without her supplies they wouldn’t have survived another year and yet, he cannot find gratefulness in his heart, clotted as it is with shame and fear, and tears unshed and words unsaid. Tormund must has seen something in his eyes, for he gazes attentively and puts a hand on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“She will be happy to see you. She will, I know she will. Besides, isn’t she the queen of you kneelers now?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, a treasonous sob rising in his throat. “She’s not queen of the free folk though.”</p><p> </p><p>Tormund seems to ponder his words.</p><p> </p><p>“Aye. But she does not need bands of ravenous folks wandering around in the south, or near her precious castles. Famine for us means trouble for her, so, off you go. Go see that pretty sister of you, Little Crow, bend the knee to her and ask her to help us.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Jon II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon and Sansa don’t know they have feelings YET. They love each other as family and I want them to have time to reconnect, but it’s a bit awkward because you know, everything. BUT they are just so good working together that feelings will come eventually.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Winterfell</p><p> </p><p>The old mare the Watch so reluctantly lent him is so worn out that he does the last miles on foot, pulling her along gently. By the time he looks down the valley at Winterfell walls, his feet are wet inside his boots. It was a mistake to wear his Night’s Watch clothes, his fur lined boots may look strange south of the Wall but at least his feet would be dry. He found several streams along the way beginning to melt, more so as he got farther south. It’s the thawing. Or so it seems. It might still be months or years before the land thaws beyond the Wall and many more could die.</p><p> </p><p>It’s midday and the castle bustles with activity, so no one stops to pay attention to the scruffy looking visitor. He looks up to the balcony hoping to catch a glimpse of red hair, but she’s nowhere to be seen. He reassures himself that even if his raven announcing his visit did not make it, she will not refuse to see him.</p><p> </p><p><em>I could just walk into her chambers</em>. </p><p> </p><p>Sense prevails and he decides to go to the kitchen and grab something to eat before seeking out the Maester and announcing his presence. Then he scolds himself for stupidly expecting a formal welcome. He is not a king anymore.</p><p> </p><p>He hands the horse to a boy and makes his way to the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>“My lord!”</p><p> </p><p>A young freshly shaved man is smiling broadly at him. He does not look like the Maester. “Welcome.” He bows his head slightly, his disapproving gaze briefly stopping at his head and his beard. But it’s all too brief, and he gathers himself, his manners impeccable and his smile unfazed. “We were expecting you, please, come with me.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon follows him back to the keep, this time fully aware of all the looks and the shocked whispers, and curses to all seven hells for not taking half an hour more at Castle Black and visit the barber. He must truly look like a wildling and smell like one too, in a Night’s Watch uniform that has been collecting dust in a musty chest at the Wall. Not that he would have blended in in his wildling furs either.</p><p> </p><p>The young man opens a door and points animatedly. “Your chambers have been ready for a fortnight, my lord, since we got your raven. I will send for food immediately and a bath is being prepared”.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you...”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s Cryss, my lord, I am her Grace’s steward. Please let the maids know if there’s anything you should need.” He bows and closes the door on his way out.</p><p> </p><p>A bath. The word sounds almost foreign to him now, after two years with the free folk. He walks in timidly and takes in the scene as if he was seeing it for the first time. But it’s his old chambers, his bed, a small table by the window he recognises from his king days and even his old clothes chest on a corner, with the hook on the wall he used to hang his cloak. The water is still steaming, and when he steps inside he feels all his bones and muscles and exactly where they ache. The soap has a distinct smell but he can’t quite recall what it is until he is so tired of scrubbing and rinsing that he has lost track of time and the water has begun to cool.</p><p> </p><p><em>Lavender</em>.</p><p> </p><p>As he pats himself dry he dreads having to wear his sweaty clothes from the road again, but then sees the clean clothes laid out on the bed. Wool breeches and shirt. They are his, but again they look foreign to him, oddly placed in a life that is not his. Once dressed, the smell of cooked meat leads him to the spread on the table, mutton and potatoes. He sits down and eats mechanically, preoccupied with the conversation he is yet to have with Sansa, and wonders what her reaction will be when she sees him. He distractedly bites the bread and every other worry ceases to exist.</p><p> </p><p><em>Bread</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He had forgotten how it tasted and crunched, and even how it felt in his fingers. After a few more bites he chuckles at himself, at his silliness, and as his stomach rumbles content, he leans back on the chair, his body no longer tense. The free folk don’t have bread, not real bread anyway. When there is grain the women make grits for the children and sometimes a kind of flat cake they fry in elk grease, but it tastes nothing like real bread made in a stone oven.</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t being away that long, but he had already forgotten the little comforts of a life in the south he took for granted growing up. A great divide is between the life beyond the Wall and here, at Winterfell, between the Northerners and the Free Folk, between the king he once was and the outcast he has become. He is out of place in both places now, hanging above the precipice by memories and fears, freezing and thawing at the same time, foolishly hoping he can ever stand on solid ground again.</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>Her hair is shiny, her eyes bright, her smile open. She gets up and opens her arms and he melts, his heart jumps in his chest, their bodies collide, warmth on warmth. When they break their embrace she touches his cheek. He holds his breath when her fingers play with his messy beard for an fleeting moment. She sits and points at the chair in front of her as the heat of her touch melts on his skin like a wax seal.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you have a good trip?”</p><p> </p><p>“I did, thank you, S...Your Grace.”</p><p> </p><p>She winces at the formality. “Jon.”</p><p> </p><p>He can’t help but smile.</p><p> </p><p><em>I knew it. I always knew it</em>. </p><p> </p><p>He wants to tell her. To look into her eyes as he tells her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The North was always meant to be yours.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>But it’s her that breaks the silence, ever courteous. “I hope you are hungry, I thought we could have supper together?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, Sansa.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles and lowers her gaze to the fabric on her lap and the needle between her fingers, and flowers, golden flowers spring where her hands have been. There are tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose. He had never noticed them before, but maybe they were there all the time and he was just blind. Her voice is both familiar and new too.Supper comes and goes, and nothing marks the pass of time, except candles have been lighted now and beyond the window there’s only dark sky. There is no moon, and in moonless nights the free folk retreat earlier into their tents.</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm, Sansa, did you read my raven? I wrote I wished to discuss matters concerning the free folk.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I read it, Jon.” The light of the candles paints her hair like polished copper. “How’s Tormund?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine”.</p><p> </p><p>She gives him a stony look.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean it. How is he?”</p><p> </p><p>He cracks. He tells her how scarce game has been, how they move farther and farther north, hoping to hunt but the ice does not yield. He does not tell her that when the pains of hunger become dull is when the real danger begins. He does not have the heart to tell her that children stop crying first, when the emaciated bodies no longer produce tears. He can’t and he won’t.</p><p>Not to <em>this</em> Sansa, not to this golden and copper Sansa. He talks to the Queen instead, about supplies and tribe councils, hopes and fears. They are the free folk, they know how to endure hardship, but this, this is different. They can’t make it without help, without her help, and yet...</p><p> </p><p>“It feels wrong, so wrong to ask you, with all the mouths you have to feed too. It feels unfair, to also task you with this, but, what alternative do they have? Tormund doesn’t see one, and neither do I.”</p><p> </p><p>Sansa turns her gaze to the fire on her right, looking young and fragile. He shakes the thought and tries to conjure the image of her with a crown, because it’s what he needs right now, the Queen, only the Queen can save them. He racked his brains on the long way here, one has to bring a proposal when meeting a King or Queen or risk looking like a fool. “If the Night’s Watch would let them hunt south of the Wall they will be able to feed themselves, would you ask Brandon about it?”</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes are two blue stones. “The Watch is no longer under the authority of King’s Landing. It is my responsibility, not Brandon’s.”</p><p> </p><p>He only hears his own heart beat. His mouth is dry.“Is Brandon...does he agree with this?”</p><p> </p><p>Her voice is iron. “The Wall is in the North, I supply it and the Lord Commander reports to me. Brandon does not get to tell me how to rule my own land.”</p><p> </p><p>Back in his chambers he stays awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering what this means to the Watch, to the free folk, to himself. Whatever games a Queen and a King wish to play he certainly does not want to take part. It is almost dawn when he falls asleep and dreams a restless dream where he chases a wolf through the woods.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Jon III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Amazed by the response to this humble idea of a fic. Your comments are so encouraging! In this short chapter Jon and Sansa have a moment in the battlements right before meeting the lords in the Great Hall. It’s still Jon’s POV so you know, lots of sad Jon feelings. I want to hug him so much.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For the purposes of this story the lords were upset about him being a Targaryen but now, two years later, it’s just silly because you know, Targs are gone, and Jon has no power and no intention of taking any, so for the North he is Lyanna’s more than anything.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Battlements.</p><p> </p><p>The sky is clear and bright blue but the air is frigid. As he walks up the stairs to the battlements he notices the frost on the steps and threads carefully trying not to slip. He thought to take a moment for himself but when he makes it to the top he sees there is someone already there, a tall figure in a grey coat. He would recognize her everywhere even with her hair under the hood.</p><p> </p><p>He clears his throat not wishing to startle her but she doesn’t hear him, too caught up with the view. She stands in the battlements with his back to him, her gaze to the distant valleys and beyond, to the snow covered hills. Miles and miles ahead, and through woods and lakes, castles and lodges, far up north is the Wall, and beyond, the land of the free folk. He stands by her side and gently touches her elbow.</p><p> </p><p>“Sansa”.</p><p> </p><p>Her name is auburn, warm and earthy like wild honey.</p><p> </p><p>She turns to face him with a smile on her lips and eyes that match the morning sky. “Good morning.”</p><p> </p><p>He knows he is smiling too, his hand on her elbow, his fingers trailing up and down her arm, hesitantly. She stares at his head for a moment and lifts an eyebrow in question. He laughs. “Aye, I had it trimmed. I thought you will be pleased, I can’t look like a wildling when your lords see me.”</p><p> </p><p>“You look good.”</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps he is imagining things but the way she says it makes his fingers twitch. He holds to her arm harder, daringly, and she does not shake him off.</p><p> </p><p>“And not wearing black was also a good idea.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” He is wearing his blue doublet and brown padded armour that he wore when they took Winterfell.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry about the meeting, Jon, you will be there because I require your service and they need to see you as my envoy, not as part of the Watch. Besides, everyone knows you didn’t stay at Castle Black for long.” She tilts her head in a playful gesture. “Let me do the talking.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods. A strand of hair flies by her cheek and without thinking he takes it between two fingers and tucks it gently behind her ear under the hood. Her lips part but she doesn’t flinch away.</p><p> </p><p>“I...I expect your lords won’t be pleased to see me around, considering I am...well...not a Stark”.</p><p> </p><p>She takes a step closer and looks at him in the eyes. “You will be surprised how little they all care for the...news about you. Aunt Lyanna was beloved of course, but many of the people that knew her are dead now. After everything that has happened to us, after so much death, few care about your...about Rhaegar.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>So much death. Because Rhaegar wanted his Northern girl.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>Me</em>. He thinks guiltily, <em>I was the reason for all that blood</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“I am going down to the crypts if you don’t mind.” He swallows down a lump in his throat. Perhaps is futile to try to talk to stone Starks, but now his dreams have a face, a face with kind eyes, and he takes whatever is left of his mother, a wilting rose, a fist of snow before it melts.</p><p> </p><p>Sansa nods, and he thinks she knows, she understands, she is also a motherless child.</p><p> </p><p>She takes a step down the stairs and slips on the ice. He catches her in and they both chuckle, relieved. He puts an arm around her waist and guides her down the stairs, their breath making clouds in the air and her scent filling his nose. She has grown tall and proud like a Weirdwood tree, but she still has an innocence to her, a softness that she buries away to wear her crown.</p><p> </p><p>He longs to see her, no crown, just a woman, to uncover the seeds awaiting the thaw.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Sansa I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Finally! Sansa’s POV! My girl just wanted to chill out a bit because she has been working non stop, and she is hanging out with her cousin Jon. Yeah, he’s handsome but she is here for the conversation...nothing to see people...jokes aside, this is Sansa the one who likes to hear stories about magical places, and the one who dreams of babies. Brief mention of past unwanted touches. I submitted this chapter as a one shot to Jonsa valentines 2021 event on tumblr if you want to check it out.<br/>By the way your comments are giving me life! Thank you 🙏</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Godswood</p><p> </p><p>She has hugged Jon before, and held his hand, and yet, yesterday when he held her and helped her down the stairs it felt...different. He had his hair trimmed and his beard closely shaved. It emphasises his long face and his youth. On a first look one may say he is a Stark through and through, but she has been sitting next to him all morning stealing glances at his plump lips, so unlike father’s, and captivated by the odd reflection in the grey in his eyes. It’s a deep purple, flickering, like a flame.</p><p> </p><p>Easy to spot it now that she knows.</p><p> </p><p>He was never intriguing to her growing up, a broody, quiet child, a half of something, a Snow. Hearing the truth about him was less of a revelation and more of a punch to her belly, another hidden bruise under her dress, another layer to their shared days on the road to some bannermen, another night in a tent, shouting at each other over war maps. That day she washed away whatever was left of her childhood and ran into this stranger covered in blood and smelling of ashes, and she saw him for the first time.</p><p> </p><p>He is all Lyanna and yet, he <em>must</em> have left something of himself in his son.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever it was, it nearly killed him, it nearly killed them all.</p><p> </p><p>“You knew they will react this way, didn’t you?”.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, she did. She knew the lords will bicker and argue, pointing fingers at the treason that runs in his veins, at the madness that consumes all of them. Yesterday in the Great Hall Jon frowned and sighed, and let her lead the charge.</p><p> </p><p>“Give them time. Cool heads will prevail when they see how this benefits the North.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods. She has to make an effort to stop contemplating his face. “When will you leave?”</p><p> </p><p>“In a couple of days. The sooner the better, I may have to track Tormund if he has moved camp.”</p><p> </p><p>“Send him a raven.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Don’t leave yet.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jon gives her his lopsided smile and touches her hand tentatively. “The free folk can’t read.”</p><p> </p><p>She daydreams. Once they are settled they might accept a Maester, he could teach the children and the grown ups too if they are interested. She pictures laughing children and tiny chubby fingers writing on a board.</p><p> </p><p>“Be careful though, if the emissary of the Queen slips on the ice and dies, it will set us back for years, maybe decades” She smiles to hide the lump in her throat.</p><p> </p><p>He nails his gaze on her and shakes his head.“I have my good wildling boots at Castle Black and my snowshoes. I’ll be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>The day is quite warm, and she has ordered a basket of fruit and cooled wine to sit under the trees. When the food is gone they lay on the blankets, drunk on sun and tales. He offers stories of the free folk, paints her a landscape of blue valleys and crystal icicles, a place where magic beasts are real and can feed a village. A place of hardship and of victorious dances and babes born nine moons after a big hunt. She is holding his hand, rough burnt scars and discoloured skin but strong. Gentle. Unlike others before him, this touch she welcomes on her back, between her hands, or timidly playing with strands of her hair.</p><p> </p><p>When the sun sets they get back to the castle, her arm on his, but the warmth is fleeing, and she feels the evening chill. He will leave again, as he always does, a wolf on wings, a thawing hope and a promise.</p><p> </p><p>“When everyone has settled I will send for you, and we will go together, north of the Wall. No duties, no lords, no maids, just you and I. I will show you the stars and teach you how to fish on a hole on the ice.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Sansa II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hello...is anyone still out there? I plan to update several chapters today sooo...hope you stick around to read more about these two crazy kids. Clearly, Sansa is touched by Jon’s thoughtfulness and, Jon is happy to be useful.  I won’t spend much time discussing what happened with Dany because, well, I don’t want to, buuuuuut, for the purpose of the story PolJon was real. And Sansa has forgiven him for failing to communicate with her about it. In this chapter, brief mentions of the past, angsty Jon and Sansa’s unwavering support for the free folk. Because repopulating the Gift was Ned’s dream in the books and Sansa is her father’s daughter.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> The Gift.</p><p> </p><p>Tormund is a large fellow but he’s graceful in his own way. He hopped and twirled never missing a beat, and for a moment she forgot she was not at Winterfell’s Great Hall but at a wildling village, dancing around a big fire. Calling it a village may be a stretch. Twenty wooden cabins arranged in a circle in a clearing in the woods and a few parcels of newly planted rye. She can only imagine how hard it must have been for them to trade their hunting and fishing forfarming, and their fur tents for cabins, but like Jon said, they were willing to change their ways if it meant food to put in their kids mouths. And the kids. They are all chubby and have rosy cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>She spotted the mothers sitting by their cabin doors sewing, holding babies on their laps when she arrived. The older children were playing nearby but the commotion of her arrival spiked their curiosity, and she was soon surrounded by eager faces and grubby hands. Some of the older girls touched her dress and hair, wide eyed. A tall girl with a thick red braid appeared of nowhere and practically had to rescue her from them because “King Crow said to take her to the Queen’s cabin”.</p><p> </p><p>Its humble walls and roof are made of rough logs, but it’s spacious and a lamp hangs from the ceiling giving a warm glow.</p><p> </p><p>“It won’t smoke”. Jon explained.</p><p> </p><p>In the centre a large bear skin serves as a rug and two halves of a trunk as seats. More logs form the base for a bed, with hay and more furs on top in way of a mattress. Her steward wrinkled his nose in a disdainful gesture as he took in the room and when they finished unloading her luggage he whispered, “we should have brought your bed, Your Grace”.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a long way from Winterfell and she didn’t want to bring too many cars and servants that would slow them on the snowy roads.</p><p> </p><p><em>Or maybe she was in a hurry to see him</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Quite unnecessary, Cryss. This would do for now”.</p><p> </p><p>“I was at Winterfell, Wolf Queen, when the dead came”.</p><p> </p><p>She turns to the girl, she looks familiar, but then again, there were so many wildlings, and refugees from the south, so many faces to remember.</p><p> </p><p>“I was not afraid, I knew those stone walls would stand”.</p><p> </p><p>Jon smiles at the tall girl, and she at him. “This is Dalla, Your Grace, she is Tormund’s eldest child”.</p><p> </p><p>“Dalla, of course”.She pretends to recognise her and the girl beams.</p><p> </p><p>“Dalla, please tell everyone to stay away from the cabin, and let the Queen rest”.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, King Crow”. She stomps out of her cabin without curtsying and her steward sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t be needing you for now, Cryss”.</p><p> </p><p>He bows stiffly. “Your Grace”.</p><p> </p><p>In just a few months Jon has managed to bring Tormund’s tribe this far south and organise them to build and work the fields and he did it all by himself. All he had was a piece of parchment, an official letter from the Queen in the North that meant nothing to the tribe. They came for him, because they trust him, not because of some big house or prestigious name. Eventually, she sent two farmers and a scribe to help him with everything and teach the children.</p><p> </p><p>“The men helped me cut the trunks and put the logs in place. We made it bigger than the regular ones”.</p><p> </p><p>She put her hand gently over the walls his rough hands built. “You shouldn’t have bothered. I could have slept anywhere”.</p><p> </p><p>“You needed privacy, at least to rest or just sew...have a moment away from prying eyes”.</p><p> </p><p>She is grateful he thinks of her smallest needs.</p><p> </p><p>Jon asked her to come for a brief visit, to let the people see she cares for them, that they are welcomed by all the North and not just him, and that even the Queen herself will not demand they bend the knee or change their ways. The free folk may be very different from her people, but they sure know how to have fun. She danced with all the men, except a very old frail looking man that remained seated, and even with some of the women. She lost count of the jugs of ale she sipped from and when she noticed they began to run low, she had the barrels of wine she had brought from Winterfell opened.</p><p> </p><p>After dancing with her only once, Jon sat away, drinking his wine quietly, back against a tree, dark eyes trained on her. She felt lightheaded every time she looked his way and he was watching her, she felt like drowning in those dark pools of fire. When the music paused she thanked Tormund and turned towards where she had last seen him but he was gone.</p><p> </p><p>A wolf ghost.</p><p> </p><p>She giggled at her own silliness and stumbled by the tree line. The moon was high, a bright candle in her path.</p><p> </p><p>“Sansa?”. He turns around to face her.</p><p> </p><p>“You are leaving”.</p><p> </p><p>“Aye, to bed”.</p><p> </p><p>The light of the moon draws a shadow across his face, and the scar around his eye glows. It’s mesmerizing, like looking at some beast from a song. She struggles to find something to say that won’t sound stupid, the sweetness of wine still on her tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“We should stay until it’s done. The feast. Until the feast is done”.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Sansa, they are free folk, their feasts don’t end before dawn.” Jon chuckles.</p><p> </p><p>She stands there, wondering why she had followed him.</p><p> </p><p><em>Dance. Dance with me</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Jon offers his arm without a word, and she takes it gratefully. Too much ale, she might trip. They walk in silence, their coats touching each other, their shoulders brushing. She follows him blindly, unsure of her surroundings, one tree like the other, but he knows his way and she sees now he is taking her to her cabin. She won’t go. She won’t be put to bed like a child.</p><p> </p><p>“Jon”. She blurts, breathless.</p><p> </p><p>He lifts one eyebrow in silent question.</p><p> </p><p>“We need to discuss...some things. Take me to...your cabin”.</p><p> </p><p>“Sansa, I cannot do that”.</p><p> </p><p>She leans towards him, and painted by the moon on the ground, their shadows kiss. “Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>“Among the free folk if a man takes a woman into his tent he has stolen her”.</p><p> </p><p>“How can I be stolen? I am not cattle”. She huffs.</p><p> </p><p>There they are, those dark pupils she can’t resist staring at, watching her, seeing all over her face. Seeing her.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s their custom. I don’t agree with it but it’s not my place to judge. If a man wants a woman he steals her into his tent and if she doesn’t resist then, well, they are married.”</p><p> </p><p>“Married?” She blurts.</p><p> </p><p>Jon nods. “As far as the free folk goes”.</p><p> </p><p>—————</p><p> </p><p>Once inside her cabin he sits her on the bed, lifts her feet and takes of her boots. He pours some water for her. The cold water clears the fog in her head.</p><p> </p><p>“You have done a good job here”.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you”.</p><p> </p><p>He wears a simple shirt, his old breeches and boots. His hair is overgrown again, lazy curls escape his half bun he has tied like father used to. A man many would look down on, if only by his looks, but more than a warrior, clever and caring. She still believes in him, even now, even after the flames devoured everything they had built together. He seats on the bed next to her.</p><p> </p><p>“Sansa, I mean it. It means a lot to me that you trust me enough to let me do this, for the North.After...well...”. He goes on, eager to unburden himself. “When I arrived at Castle Black I couldn’t stay, I just couldn’t, I was so confused, so...angry.” He smirks. “I was surprised I was not chased”.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you really think I would execute you for desertion?”</p><p> </p><p>She can barely remember those first days back at home, weary of long weeks on the road, worrying at night, worrying at day. Before she was even crowned there was so much to do and so much to rebuild that it was weeks before she heard the Watch had elected a new Lord Commander. Jon was mentioned in that raven as having left with “wildlings”, destination unknown, but she barely gave it a thought.</p><p> </p><p>“I would never do that to you. We are family”.</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes I wish I really was Ned Stark’s bastard. That my mother hadn’t...”</p><p> </p><p>He looks away from her but she sees his shoulders tremble and he covers his mouth with his hand. He goes to hug her the moment she reaches for him and they tumble on the bed, his face buried in her belly, his tears silent like falling snow. When his sobs subside she is sitting on her bed, him across her lap, her hand running through his hair, scratching his head gently.</p><p> </p><p>He is not done yet. “I don’t care if they call me traitor, or their mocking stares. I am ashamed of how I behaved around you”.</p><p> </p><p>“I hold nothing against you”. Her words float in the air for a moment, embers in their cold hearts, scars from a thousand battles won and lost, ashes from their past fears. There are no more words as the noises or the forest surround them, his breathing deeper and slower until he is fast asleep in her arms.</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>Dawn.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe is not with big gestures that our lives change. Maybe sometimes a warm body next to yours, a head full of wild curls on your pillow in enough. Maybe hearts heal hidden under the skin like mended bones, when all words have failed.</p><p> </p><p>She can’t resist touching his head and he turns around to see her, and gives her a sleepy smile. She can tell the moment slumber leaves when he jolts out of her bed fully awake.</p><p> </p><p>“Sansa”. He gasps. “I felt asleep on your bed!”.</p><p> </p><p>She nods.</p><p> </p><p>“You should have woken me up, I...” he looks around confused, running his hand through his mass of hair.</p><p> </p><p>“Calm down, no one noticed. Besides, it’s not like I stole you or anything”.</p><p> </p><p>He looks so shocked she has to stifle a giggle. That breaks his tension and he laughs openly, heartily. It’s the oddest thing, and when he sits on the bed next to her shaking his head, still laughing, she can’t resist the urge to touch him once more. She hugs his back and buries her face in his neck, taking his scent in, greedily. He rubs his hands up and down her arms, his thumb caresses her wrist, soothing.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment there is no world, no free folk, no crowns, just the two of them. Heavily, almost begrudgingly he kisses her knuckles and gets up.</p><p> </p><p>“I have to go. Before they wake up and rumours start”.</p><p> </p><p>She nods silently and lays back on her pillows. He could have stayed, he wanted to it seemed. He isn’t like the others, those before him that have tried to steal her claim, to rob her of her name, never concerned for her reputation or for the cold they left behind. But not Jon. Not her Jon.</p><p> </p><p>Later, when her maids move her bed furs, they find Jon’s hair tie underneath. She takes it quietly and ties it to her own braid.</p><p> </p><p>It may take years but thawing can shatter even a stone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Sansa III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Between this chapter and the previous one, around six months have passed, and Jon and Sansa have stayed in touch via raven. She has been a very busy Queen, she has created the “New Watch”, see note at the end. Jon will take my girl on an adventure holiday because she deserves to have some fun. In my head canon Sansa is indeed all lady like and delicate BUT she is also young and fun, and game to go trekking and climbing because she can do BOTH. This chapter doesn’t have much of a plot, but I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it!</p>
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    <p> Castle Black</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“When Queen Alysanne visited Castle Black in the tenth year of her reign, she enchanted all the brothers present with her conversation and regal presence. She then praised them for their bravery with kind words and offered to intercede on their behalf to King Jahaerys, and convince him to grant them the New Gift. They renamed Snowgate Castle Queensgate, in her honour. There was never a more beloved Queen amongst the small folk...”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>She yawns and closes the book, tired but uncertain if it’s bedtime yet. This time of the year the sun does not set for long hours and the days stretch in a pale pink light that makes her morose and melancholic. Or so she tells herself. It’s the light, it’s the cold.</p><p> </p><p>It’s Jon.</p><p> </p><p>Her Jon.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t write often, but she noticed a change in his letters. The greetings changed first. Your Grace. Dearest cousin. Sweet Sansa. She used to sit for hours reading them over and over again, and countless ruined parchments were thrown into the fire until she could write with steady hands. She ended her letters differently too. Your most faithful cousin. Your Sansa.</p><p> </p><p>Yours.</p><p> </p><p>Yours.</p><p> </p><p>They set up this appointment at Castle Black months ago, but she is anxious he won’t show up since the free folk don’t have calendars and Jon has been terribly busy, writing down lists, drawing maps, negotiating with clans and even building. He went beyond the Wall to bring more tribes to the New Gift and since she has to travel for this visit to the Wall, they decided it would be easier to meet here.</p><p> </p><p>Negotiations with the Lord Commander went swiftly, and since the brothers make for rather dull company, she has read every book twice and sewn until she ran out of fabric, waiting for him. She brought six men with her, each with a fresh horse, recruits of the new vows, eager for adventure, fresh faced and appropriately equipped for the cold. They are to replace the men the Lord Commander will dispose of for being troublesome and one very elderly brother that will be traveling back to his family, free of his vows. Six men may not seem much but is the beginning of something at least.</p><p> </p><p>Thawing takes time.</p><p> </p><p>She is ready and excited for their trip. His words still ring in her ears, describing all the wonders he promised to show her beyond the Wall. When he finally appears, clad in fur head to toe, ice on his overgrown beard, he looks like a bear. He walks into the room and unceremoniously shoves a parcel into her hands.</p><p> </p><p>“I did not slip and fall, my sweet Sansa.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiles and opens his arms, but she is so shocked that she has to will herself to take a step and hug him. Beneath the furs and the beard is the same man, and he smells familiar. He smells like home. The parcel contained a fur shirt with a hood attached to it, and fur breeches the kind the free women wear. A set of funny looking wooden baskets were tied to everything with a string.</p><p> </p><p>Jon smiles at her questioning look. “Snowshoes. For our promised walk.”</p><p> </p><p>True to his word they walked and fished, climbed and walked some more, and her legs were sore, and the wind chaffed her lips. Jon was strong enough for both of them, and held her, warmed her, fed her and made her rest in a long string of nightless days that she couldn’t count anymore. They slept inside a cave, and sang songs under the stars. She saw with her own eyes the endless whites and blues he promised and heard the noises mountains make at night. It was magical, and his stories were true, all of them, although she doesn’t believe that he sew those breeches himself.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I debated between letting Jon join the Watch again or not, but tbh, the Watch as we know it is a glorified prison camp and it has to go. Sansa has annulled all the old vows, so Jon is not a brother anymore. She has created “the New Watch” which is basically a rotation of men serving six months with six months free to go home. These men vow to serve the North but are not obliged to be celibate, in fact, married men are accepted in their ranks. Think of it as Forest Rangers of the sort. The men of the “old vows” who choose to stay have to behave, so violent rapists are a big no, and those without history of violence can go back to their families if they wish to. Sansa has also improved the living conditions to attract new recruits.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Gift</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon and Sansa near the end of their trip. Double POV. Some brief mention of Sansa’s past experiences, and Lady’s death. Sansa is getting bolder about the thing she wants, and Jon too.  Still, they take baby steps, people, baby steps.</p>
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    <p>Sansa. The woods.</p><p> </p><p>They tie their furs together in a tight bundle, with their flint, bowl, and fishing line inside. She realises she has been very quiet these days, as they get closer and closer to the Wall. She didn’t have it easy with all the walking, and climbing made her arms ache, but there was undeniable beauty waiting to be seen, fresh air, sun and stars. She enjoyed it more than she thought she would. Specially the nights when Jon’s warmth kept her comfortable under her furs.</p><p> </p><p>It was freeing. No eyes on them, no court to please.</p><p> </p><p>He noticed.</p><p> </p><p>“We are two days away from Castle Black, but if you are too tired I could go and bring you a horse. You can wait here for me”.</p><p> </p><p>“No, thank you, I can walk two more days”.</p><p> </p><p>“Your people must be impatient to see you, and I bet you could kill for a hot bath”. He offers with a smile.</p><p> </p><p>She barely huffs in response.</p><p> </p><p>They eat in silence. She hates herself for making Jon uncomfortable but if she tries to speak she thinks she may choke. It’s over. Her entourage is waiting for her at Castle Black, she will go back to Winterfell alone. He sits away from her but close enough to the fire,carving out a piece of wood he is being working on for days. It’s beginning to look like a wolf.</p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t seen Ghost for a while”. She ventures something easy, something neutral.</p><p> </p><p>Jon looks up for a moment and goes back to his carving. “Ghost has probably found a mate and has a den somewhere”.</p><p> </p><p>He gets up and holds the carved wolf just above the flames to harden it. The only sound is the crackling of the fire. She sees the moon move across the sky and stars appear. She tries to remember their names, holding to the remains of their time together, the time where the world didn’t exist and it was just the two of them. She doesn’t see him approach until he puts the wooden object on her palm. A tiny dire wolf with perfectly formed paws and ears, and thin slashes along the body that look like fur.</p><p> </p><p>“For you my lady, a token from our little trip”. She holds it on her open palm, watching it with awe. “A she-wolf, as it befits the Queen in the North”.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes swell with tears. Rooted in Winterfell’s dark and moist soil her bones lie, mocking the lions and krakens that came and went, and the dragons they have slain.</p><p> </p><p><em>She belongs in the North</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t cry, please”. He dries her tears with his thumb.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s beautiful” she can’t stop sobbing. He gently strokes her hair, and she leans in, turning her face until is nestled in his palm. Rough and soft, his touch calms her down.</p><p> </p><p>“This is...it is the best gift I have ever gotten”.</p><p> </p><p>Jon looks doubtful. “It’s just a piece of wood”.</p><p> </p><p>She looks into his eyes. “This is a gift I know does not come with a price. Every man that has ever given me anything...” Jon frowns. “They all wanted something in return. A kiss. My claim. Both”.</p><p> </p><p>She can see concern in his eyes, the same tenderness she has known for years, the one that speaks louder than words, louder than promises.</p><p> </p><p>“But not you. You have never asked for anything”.</p><p> </p><p>“I am happy to serve the North”.</p><p> </p><p>They sit in silence, the flames painting everything orange, dark skies above their heads.</p><p> </p><p>A wolf howls nearby and she shivers.</p><p> </p><p>Jon puts his arm around her and pulls until their tights touch and his breath warms her. She is stronger than she looks, but in that moment, the burden of her broken dreams weakens her, mocks her. He is a mirage, and she will wake up in her empty bed. She won’t let it slip through her fingers this time, she can be brave for this too, to open her armour and offer her skin to his touch.</p><p> </p><p><em>Mine</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want you to serve the North. I have plenty of servants”. She touches him, and he turns to her, open face, trusting heart. “You are my family, I want you at Winterfell”.</p><p> </p><p>He nods.</p><p> </p><p>—————</p><p> </p><p>Jon.</p><p> </p><p>Sansa must be exhausted, but she stopped crying now. He won’t let all his questions and doubts take him, not tonight. Tomorrow they will be at Castle Black, she a queen, he a bastard, and that won’t change when the walls of Winterfell surround them. If anything, it will make it worst. He would rather face ice monsters with his sword, than see her cry again. He is not brave, he is useless, useless to erase the invisible marks on her skin, to kill the men that tried to break her, because they are already dead, ashes trampled under snow.</p><p> </p><p>The night smells cold, and he has to make an effort to get up and lay their furs for the night.</p><p> </p><p>Someone is here.</p><p> </p><p>He smells it before he hears the crack of a twig.</p><p> </p><p>A flash of white and soon he is on the ground, short of breath, a huge beast pants and licks his face. Sansa squeals, and before he can grab him he paces away, low ears, red embers glowing.</p><p> </p><p>“Ghost”. She gasps, “you are so big, so big”.</p><p> </p><p>He is. Surprisingly, he seems to have gotten taller and leaner since he last saw him, leaving the wildling camp a couple of years ago. It is quite a sight. A huge direwolf lies on the ground, white belly up, as a young girl with hair as red as his eyes scratches him, a soft smile on her face.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>They belong together.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>——————</p><p>Next day.</p><p> </p><p>He watches her even breaths, her hand sunk in Ghost’s shaggy fur, her braid across her shoulder. He glances at her rounded face, the outline of her nose and lips, porcelain against the grey furs.</p><p> </p><p>Bastard. Always wishing what he cannot have.</p><p> </p><p>He wakes her up. Rushes her. “We must make it to Castle Black today, Sansa”.</p><p> </p><p>She walks behind him, Ghost paces a few feet from her, guarding her.</p><p> </p><p>“You will need to leave someone in charge at The Gift”.</p><p> </p><p>“Uhu?”</p><p> </p><p>“You will be staying home with me, someone has to be in charge of the settlement”.</p><p> </p><p>They are close enough to see the black gate already, and the snow is less deep here. They sit and take off their snowshoes.</p><p> </p><p>“I guess Tormund is the natural leader, although he can’t read or write. That’s a problem because he will depend on the scribe, and he won’t be able to read your ravens”. He says.</p><p> </p><p>She frowns, arms crossed, thinking. She looks younger in wildling furs, her braid half undone, freckles on her nose. Below the armour, beyond the straight pose, he can see her, the real her, clever but stubborn, hard and soft, and he loves her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He loves her.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There is no lightning, no shattering ground, just a sure whisper in his heart. It cannot be.</p><p> </p><p>Why not?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I am just a man, a lost man, and she a woman.</em>
</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Jonquils and dragon knights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It’s finally happening! Because of your patience with these two dorks in love, I present to you a super sugary sweet fluffy happy ending. I am so humbled by your comments, and if you don’t comment just to know you are reading is huge. Thank you.</p>
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    <p> </p><p>Jon.</p><p> </p><p>The servants are hanging flower garlands from the wooden beams of the Great Hall, readying it for tomorrow’s weddings. Everyone was surprised when they bloomed, everyone said it wasn’t warm enough yet, not even inside the glass gardens, but the little jonquils persisted, stubborn like Tully women.</p><p> </p><p>Spring dragged her feet outside but Sansa kept busy inside, planning, writing, convincing. They decided to host Tormund’s oldest daughter, Dalla, at Winterfell. She picked her lessons very quickly, and at almost seventeen she seems more mature, more interested in matters of her people than in silly games. She will go back to the Gift to help her father, and anything they cannot solve Jon will go and see to it. It’s good to feel useful, the work in the Castle never ceases, and while Sansa has to be present at all audiences, he spends more and more time at her desk, using her seal when necessary. She trusts him, and he is grateful for that. His greedy bastard heart wants more, but he will never ask for it. He will take what she is happy to give, and no more.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t ask for any of it, but her pretty head never stops, so he wasn’t surprised when two weeks ago, Sansa wrote a proclamation and gathered the lords. She let them discuss for a while and then got up to speak.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He is a Stark because his mother was one. Her bones are buried here, as one day mine will be. Tell me, my lords, should I not be called a Stark because my mother was a Tully?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was so quiet you could hear them breath.</p><p> </p><p><em>Why, I wonder, since is the mother that bleeds to bring life forward, is her blood any less</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Lord Jon Stark of the Gift.</p><p> </p><p>After his proclamation all the lords came to congratulate him and shake his hand, even sour faced Lord Glover, and the solemn Mormont men. Tormund patted his back so hard it made him spit his wine, and he guffawed, “now I will have to call you Lord Crow!” He looked around the room at the dancers and his laughter turned into sobbing, “my little one is leaving me, and so is my little crow”.</p><p> </p><p>He hugged him. “I am not leaving you, Tormund, I will be travelling between Winterfell and the Gift, we’ll see each other often”.</p><p> </p><p>“Nah” he blew his nose on Jon’s shoulder. “Love is in the air, Lord Crow, and it’s time for you to find your mate”.</p><p> </p><p>“A mate?” <em>what does he mean?</em></p><p> </p><p>“Hey, I do not judge you”. He shrugged. “You kneelers like to sleep with your sisters? As long as is not my sister...fine by me!” He bellowed as he walked away to find a dance partner.</p><p> </p><p>No one noticed his flustered cheeks, with the happy news and the dancing and toasting that ensued everyone left him on his own to drink his wine and watch her dance in peace. Perhaps Sansa did it on purpose to spare him all the looks, but it was announced that same night that Lady Wull from Ice Bay would be marrying a Mormont man, and her brother would marry Dalla from the free folk.</p><p> </p><p>Lord Wull has a dozen granddaughters and had written to Sansa to offer “her cousin, The Jon Snow” his pick amongst them, proudly proclaiming they all had “all their teeth”. She, of course, politely declined on his behalf, and proposed a match with other Northern houses, for instance, House Mormont had several unmarried young men and no ladies of appropriate age, so the chosen bride would be Lady of Bear Island on her own right. Most pleased, Lord Wull arrived soon after, all the girls trailing shyly after him. The bride to be is a girl with thick blond hair and breasts as big as her smile, so it was her who had her pick of lovestruck Mormont boys.</p><p> </p><p>The other came as a surprise to everyone. Not even Sansa could have foreseen that the bride’s younger brother, pox marks on his face and thin as a twig, would follow Dalla all around the castle like a lost puppy. Dalla is tall and freckled, and not what you would call beautiful, but she has a clever mind and has picked up castle manners fast. The day after the Wulls arrival they got lost in the woods, and the betrothal had to be hastily announced, as they were found sound and safe, asleep in each other’s arms, naked under her furs. And that is how, in less than two weeks, two couples that have never met before will get married.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I happen to think is rather sweet, a union of the mountain clans and free folk and a small but loyal house, Northern peoples bonded by love. A sign of the new times”. She told him dreamily.</p><p> </p><p>He bit his lip to stop from laughing. “Bonded by lust, more likely”.</p><p> </p><p>Sansa lifted her eyes from her sewing and smiled. “A true romantic, I see”.</p><p> </p><p><em>What do you know of my heart, sweet Sansa</em>?</p><p> </p><p>He sits everyday with her after supper, discussing plans, sharing dreams. His favourite moment though, is when she hums while she sews, carefree and safe. Safe. And as long as his battered heart beats so she will be, cursed ancestors be damned.</p><p> </p><p>————————</p><p> </p><p>Sansa.</p><p> </p><p>She sent Jon the new doublet she made him so he could try it on, a deep grey wool that matches his eyes. He refused several richly embroidered fabrics she had shown him, ever a Stark, but she had her way in the end, a dozen silver rose shaped buttons close his doublet, fit for a winter king. She also asked her maids to get her coronation dress ready for tomorrow’s weddings, and they started talking, like all silly girls do, and got all worked up about wanting to do her hair too. They added a jewelled pin to it, some old trinket forgotten in a box. Both brides and grooms are from small houses and don’t have fancy clothes, so she has decided to keep everything simple, and will wear no crown.</p><p> </p><p>She stares at the mirror. Her skin still looks like porcelain, her eyes still shine with Tully pride, she sits straight and unreachable. Alone.</p><p> </p><p>The bright eyes of the brides and the trembling hands of the grooms reminded her sharply of what she doesn’t have. Of the dozens of proposals she has rejected, of the pretty boxes, gold, silver, copper, filled with sweets, with perfume, with jewels, designed to woo her, to catch her eye. If only they knew all of those gifts are less to her than a wooden wolf that sits on her work desk, rough and fire tainted, beautiful like him.</p><p> </p><p>The pin is not right. She takes off the ugly thing and digs into her jewellery box, distractingly, when her fingers find it. She takes the leather lace and ties it to her half up do, and thinks not even Arya would find it pretty and chuckles at the thought.</p><p> </p><p>“My lady?” Jon knocks.</p><p> </p><p>“Come in”.</p><p> </p><p>He has taken to call her that, sometimes even in front of others, and it never fails to give her a warm feeling in her belly. To her surprise, he offered to oversee the feast preparations, claiming he had already done it before. “Lady Karstark had no complains”. He told her with his lopsided smile and she let him.</p><p> </p><p><em>She fears she would let him do anything</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He stands behind her, his eyes bright in the mirror. “You look beautiful, my Jonquil”.</p><p> </p><p>She blushes.</p><p> </p><p>“You used to like it, remember?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s all you talked about. It was your favourite story, and your favourite song”. He plays with thehair tie, but if he recognises it he doesn’t say anything.</p><p> </p><p>“The dragon knight”.</p><p> </p><p>A shadow crosses his eyes. The air stills.</p><p> </p><p>“My favourite was Aemon the Dragon Knight. Not Jonquil”.</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes...” He gulps. ”Sometimes I wish I were truly Ned Stark’s son”.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t”.</p><p> </p><p>“Why?” He frowns.</p><p> </p><p><em>The truth. The truth they hid from us, the lies that split us apart, blindfolded</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The years have made all her childish memories sweet, even Mother’s, even Father’s, and covered in the mists of time even Robb’s, Rickon’s and Theon’s, more than bones, less than ghosts. It’s too late for old grievances. For questions we will never find an answer to. She stands there too, stone roses on her head, a wolf, unburnt.</p><p> </p><p>The words come to her clear like a summer day.</p><p> </p><p>“Because we are wolves. Because you are for me and I am for you. Because if we don’t, our House dies with us. Marry me”.</p><p> </p><p>Jon blinks, his breath in shallow gasps, he kneels by her and grabs her hands, leans on her, parted lips and closed eyes. She kisses him first, closed lips, and trembling knees. Their foreheads touch.</p><p> </p><p>“When?” He croaks.</p><p> </p><p><em>The jonquils are in bloom</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Tomorrow”.</p><p> </p><p>He opens his eyes and nods at her. “We already have the Great Hall ready”.</p><p> </p><p>She laughs, and when he grabs her head and tilts it, her lips part for him like a flower opening with the coming spring.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For the purposes of this story, only a few tribes of the free folk will resettle at the Gift but this closeness will mean they will have to pick up some of the customs of the Northern houses, but they will remain not kneeling to Sansa. They will be allies, but still free to do things their own way. Tormund’s daughter is sort of a bridge between both cultures. I do mix some book elements (The mountain clans for instance) with show elements. In this story Lyanna Mormont is gone, so Bear Island has asked Queen Sansa for a marriage that would ensure their continuity. My Sansa would absolutely enjoy being a matchmaker, and historically monarchs have sometimes taken up that role.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know nothing about the indigenous peoples of the Artic circle but the Free Folk here are loosely based on the Inuit. A few details are accurate (according to google) like oil lamps and the snow shoes but it’s mostly my imagination. I admire those resilient and generous people and I hope not to offend anyone.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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